Don't Judge a Book by its Cover
by Settiai
Summary: You shouldn't judge a book by its cover. :: Doyle/Wesley


Title: Don't Judge a Book by its Cover

Author: Settiai

Disclaimer: "Angel" and other related characters are all properties of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and other related corporations. No infringement is intended. This story, such as it is, was written as a sign of respect and love for the characters, the show, and their creator. I claim no ownership of the aforementioned show and characters.

Rating: PG-13

Summary: You shouldn't judge a book by its cover.

Feedback: Comments and helpful criticisms are always appreciated.

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Shaking his head, Wesley grabbed his latest purchases and walked over to his kitchen table. "Why don't you go study some of your books, Wesley," he said bitterly, raising the pitch of his voice as he spoke. "Go on, Wes, see if you can find us a case in those musty old books of yours."

He dropped the books down on the table with less care than he normally would, but he grimaced as soon as they thudded against the wood. "Damn," he muttered, dropping down into a chair. He quickly ran his hands over the books to make sure that he hadn't damaged any of them.

"I'm taking this too seriously," he admitted, glancing around at the empty room. "Everyone's just a bit upset that we haven't had a new case in over a week." He paused, a sheepish look appearing on his face. "And I'm having a conversation with an empty room."

After glancing around a few times to ensure that his sanity was quickly slipping away, Wesley grabbed the book sitting on the top of the stack. One glance told him that Angel had probably been right about him wasting money on something worthless, but still … it usually wasn't wise for someone to judge a book by its cover. The ones he had glanced at had seemed to hold some promise, and he had been pleased when the seller had thrown in a few extras for free. For all he knew, the book he was holding could be filled with hundreds of spells, information on dozens of demons, stories of Slayers that had long been gone…

…or it could be completely blank.

Wesley blinked at the dull cream page that stared back up at him, and he quickly turned to the next page. And the next. And the next.

"I just spent fifty dollars on a blank diary," he muttered, letting out a tired sigh as he flipped one last page. "I think that I'm going to avoid mentioning that little detail to Angel."

Wesley gently ran a finger over the pale page, and he flinched as its sharp edge cut into his skin. Letting out a muffled curse, he quickly switched the book to his other hand and brought his bleeding finger up to his mouth. "I can take a hint," he said irritably, frowning at the drop of blood that had trickled across the blank page.

He started to close the book and set it back down on the table, but he froze mid-action as the tiny drop of blood on the page began to glow. Wesley stared at it in a confusion before letting out a startled cry as a bright stream of light suddenly shot of the book. Shocked, he dropped it down onto the table and quickly scooted his chair back. It skidded against the floor and titled backwards, sending him sprawling onto the floor.

Stars danced in front of his eyes, and he quickly brought his hand up and rubbed his aching head. Suddenly he heard a loud crash, followed by several colorful curses. Then the stream of light blinked out.

Wesley hesitantly pulled himself to his feet, looking worriedly over his kitchen. Everything seemed to be in order. Dirty dishes laying in the sink, pile of books on the table, yesterday's mail resting on the counter, naked man sitting on the floor by the refrigerator, portable phone…

His mind made a sharp turn back to _naked man sitting on the floor by the refrigerator_.

Wesley blinked a few times, then reached up and pulled off his glasses. He vigorously cleaned them with his shirt before putting them back on his face. Unfortunately, that didn't help his apparently delusional mind.

"I must have hit my head harder than I thought," he said weakly.

At his words, the other man whirled toward him with a startled expression on his face. The man's hair was black, and his green eyes were glazed with uncertainty. "Where am I?" he asked with a rather thick Irish accent.

Wesley stared for a few seconds before collecting himself enough to respond. "My kitchen," he said, waiting a moment before adding, "in Los Angeles." He paused, studying the confused look on the other man's face. "California," he added helpfully.

"I know where Los Angeles is," the man snapped as he pulled himself to his feet.

Even though Wesley was trying very hard to convince himself that his imagination was merely going through a very overactive stage, he couldn't help but let his eyes move down the man's body. He was thin, but he had more than a little muscle. If Wesley's eyes weren't playing tricks on him, and he really hoped that they weren't because strange men didn't usually appear out of thin air, the man had tattoos on both shoulders … and he was very well-endowed.

But there were more pressing matter at hand. Wesley forced his gaze back up to the man's face. "No need to be snappy," he shot back, well aware that his comeback was obviously delayed.

An apologetic expression immediately appeared on the man's face, and he held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Sorry," he said. He looked so sincere that Wesley couldn't help but believe that he was genuine. "I'm just a little disoriented here. One minute I was dying and the next I'm sitting on the floor in someone's kitchen. I guess I should be thanking you for … whatever you did to bring me here."

"Whatever I did," Wesley repeated, hesitantly reaching out to touch the man's shoulder. "That's a good way to put it."

The man raised an eyebrow as Wesley tentatively touched him. "You don't know what you did?" he asked.

"Not a clue." Finding that his hand had connected with warm skin, Wesley frowned. "Not an hallucination then," he said under his breath.

"Apparently not," the man said dryly. When Wesley let out an exasperated sigh, though, he had the grace to appear a little sheepish. "I haven't actually thanked you yet, have I?"

Before Wesley had a chance to say anything, the dark-haired man took a few steps forward, grabbed him, and planted an extremely generous kiss directly on his lips. After a few seconds, Wesley, or at least the part of Wesley that was functioning as the brain at the moment, decided that it might be a good idea for him to actually kiss back ¼ but the other man pulled away before his body reacted to the orders he was sending it.

"Right then," Wesley managed to choke out. "A strange man magically appears in my kitchen, stark naked, and promptly snogs me. Maybe that book wasn't worthless after all."

The man glanced down for just an instant, and Wesley was fairly certain that he noticed a hint of a blush. It faded almost immediately, though, as the man shot him a small grin. "A book? And here I was thinking that I'd wandered into the middle of the Second Coming." He winked. "Magic instead of a miracle, huh?"

"Something like that." Wesley gestured toward his bedroom, trying to keep his eyes focused on the man's face. "I've got some clothes in there, maybe you should…."

"Slip into something a little less comfortable," the man suggested, quickly turning and making his way in the direction Wesley had pointed..

"Please do."

"There's no need for that tone," the man said, rolling his eyes. He paused for a second and turned back toward Wesley. "Do you, um, have a name?"

Wesley tried force a neutral expression onto his face, but he knew that he was probably still blushing. "Wesley," he said weakly. "Now will you please go find some clothing."

The man nodded. "Sure thing. I'm Doyle, by the way."

He turned away almost immediately, which was the only reason he didn't noticed the astonished expression that appeared on Wesley's face at his words. It really didn't matter, though, since Wesley was still standing there with the exact same expression when he reemerged five minutes later.

Doyle stared at the other man for a second or two before hesitantly walking over to where he was standing. "Are you alright?" he asked worriedly.

Wesley nodded. "I'm fine," he said weakly. "Doyle, was it?"

"That's right," Doyle replied with more than a little uncertainty. "Are you that you're okay, because you look…"

"Allen Francis Doyle, by any chance?"

The worried look on Doyle's face immediately turned to a suspicious one. "How do you know that?"

"Good lord, it is you," Wesley said weakly. Then he dropped down into the only kitchen chair that was still standing. "To think Angel and Cordelia told me I was crazy for buying that damn book."

Doyle stared at him. "You know Angel and Cordelia?"

He frowned as Wesley nodded. "Oh," Doyle said weakly. He took a deep breath. "How long have I been … gone? And what book?"

"Almost six months," Wesley replied, then gestured toward the open book laying on the table. Doyle walked over to it. "And it was that thing. It's blank, though, so I really don't th…."

"It's not blank."

Wesley froze mid-word. "What?"

"The book," Doyle said, pointing down at it. "It's not blank."

After giving Doyle a look that suggested he thought the man was lying, Wesley made his way over to the table and looked down. When his jaw dropped, Doyle reached over and gently pushed it shut. "I told you so," he said, an almost petulant tone in his voice.

"I can see that," Wesley snapped. "It was most certainly blank when I opened it a few minutes ago, though, right before you…."

He trailed off for a moment. "Right before a stream of light burst out of it and you appeared in the middle of my kitchen."

Doyle raised an eyebrow. "I can see why you thought you'd hit your head."

Rolling his eyes, Wesley studied the text that had now appeared on the book's pages. "It says something about trapping ghustan spirits," he said thoughtfully. "Ghustan. Now where have I heard that word before?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, still thinking deeply. Then his eyes shot open and he glanced at Doyle. "Human. It's a portal that traps any spirits that are touched by humanity."

He and Doyle shared a look, then , as one, they both reached out and slammed the book shut. Wesley quickly grabbed stack of books still resting on the table and dropped them down on top of it. When he glanced back at Doyle, though, a grin on his face, he saw that the other man had already scurried to the far corner of the room.

Raising an eyebrow, Wesley grabbed his jacket from where it had been thrown haphazardly over the counter and tossed it on top of the books. Then he made his way over to where Doyle was standing.

"So, which one of us will be calling Angel and Cordelia?" he asked casually. "The phone's laying over there on the table, beside the…"

Before Wesley could even blink, Doyle had already made his way over to the table and was dialing in the number. By the time he'd typed in the fifth number, though, an unreadable expression appeared on his face and he hit the "off" button.

Wesley stared at him in confusion.

"You said it's been six months," Doyle said weakly. "For me, it feels like six minutes. I didn't even think about it, but they've probably moved on. How do I know that they'd even want to see me?"

The expression on Wesley's face turned into an incredulous one. "Do you have any idea how long it took them to see me as anything more than a shadow of you?"

There was a baffled look on Doyle's face, and Wesley just shook his head as he reached out to pull the phone from Doyle's loose grip. "Trust me, they'll be here in less than ten minutes," he said, quickly typing in the familiar phone number.

As he listened to the phone ringing, Wesley studied the other man's pale face. His lips still tingled from earlier, and if Doyle was going to be around for awhile then Wesley was certain that he would be able to coax out a repeat performance.

If he was lucky, it might even be sans clothing again.

But until then….

"Angel?" Wesley said, smiling at the nervous look on Doyle's face. "Remember those books I bought earlier today? It looks like they weren't as worthless as you thought."


End file.
